


When You're So Lovely, Your Faults and Perfections Become Synonymous

by mikasasha



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Newt Scamander, Canonical Child Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past manipulation, because fight me if u think otherwise, credence is Sad but what else is new, this is abt credence learning to trust and newt's autism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikasasha/pseuds/mikasasha
Summary: Newt Scamander is remarkably unlike anyone Credence has ever met in his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i didnt beta this so if theres mistakes u know why also i really love semicolons

When Credence awoke, he was in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by an unfamiliar smell and unfamiliar silence.

He was not used to silence- with Ma, there was always a noise. Some noise, some how. The click of her shoes against the floor, Modesty singing her nursery rhyme, Chastity and Modesty talking, the bustle of the New York streets outside. He almost forgot what silence sounded like.

It was short lived; Credence just about jumped out of his skin when he heard the muffled voice of a man.

"How very immature of you, Pickett, honestly!" A hushed British accent sounded from somewhere, and Credence had heard plenty of scolding in his life to know that that's what that tone of voice meant. The realization of such had his heart rate up in seconds, and he could feel his heart beating inside of his chest.

Credence had never been scolded by a man before. Only Ma.

"I only want you to be with them for a few days; can't you do that? I don't like it when they accuse me of favoritism. I love you all very much, and very equally!" The more Credence heard the voice, the more familiar it sounded. It's quiet for a bit before the voice speaks up again. "Alright, yes, maybe you a little bit more. But only a little bit! And don't you dare say a thing about it to the other bowtruckles. I mean it."

If Credence's mind hadn't still been foggy from sleep at the time, he knew that there'd be about a trillion and one questions whizzing about his head; about what a Pickett or a bowtruckle is, about who was talking and if he was a threat. But all he did was sit up in the bed.

It was hard; his arms shook and he felt as if he'd fall. By the time he was able to steady himself into sitting, he was out of breath. He rubbed his eyes and scanned the room more thoroughly; the walls were wooden, along with the floor and the ceiling. The room was a tad of a mess; there were shelves with various knick knacks and books that Credence couldn't quite discern all over the walls. Some of the wood making the walls was discolored- some lighter than it should be, some darker than it should be.

Credence looked down at himself, and saw that he wasn't in pajamas. Looking at his outfit sparked memories. Memories of the ugly dark thing inside of him, of being attacked by witches in the intestines of the subway, of exploding.

Of Mr. Graves.

Oh God, Mr. Graves. Credence's stomach churned at the thought of him- of how he had been so mean to Credence after attacking Ma. How he had just... considered him _useless_  after he had thought that Modesty was the one with the wicked thing inside of her.

But there had to be a reason- there had to be some reason, _any_  reason. He- he had to have been worried- he had to have been overwhelmed, and- and he didn't know what to do. He was panicking, that was all. He was panicking and that's why he had lashed out against Credence. That had to be it. That had to be it. That _had_  to be _it_.

All of the touches, of the promises, of the sweet words and praise- it couldn't have all just been nothing. It couldn't have- Mr. Graves had been so loving, so kind to Credence.

And how did Credence repay him?

By attacking him.

Credence wasn't thinking right; he was hurt, he thought Mr. Graves hadn't liked him- hadn't actually meant all of the nice things he'd said prior to the ugly day of the subway. But here, now, he realized that... that Credence must have just been paranoid. That had to be it. Because someone can't _pretend_ to be so loving. They just _can't_.

And Credence, in that useless hurt, had _attacked_  Mr. Graves with the ugly, wicked thing inside of him, even after everything.

 _He_  was the one who betrayed Mr. Graves, not the other way around.

Credence could feel his eyes begin to sting- could feel tears begin to swell on his waterline. He looked down to his hands, littered with the raised flesh of pink scars, vision rapidly blurring.

He forgot all about the British voice from wherever as he stared at the marks on his palms. He recalled the gentle touch of Mr. Graves' fingertips as he traced his hands, and even healed some of the cuts that Ma would give him. He had hurt Mr. Graves. He had hurt Mr. Graves after all of the love and care he had given Credence.

Credence was a _monster_.

What if Mr. Graves wasn't okay? Oh Lord, what if Credence killed him?

He felt his ribs shake, and the sensation of a sob making his way through his throat gave him gooseflesh. The sob escaped him, and somewhere Credence registered that it was an odd sounding and ugly noise, but he didn't care. He closed his hands and held them close to his chest, bringing his knees up shortly after. He buried his face in his hands and rested them on his knees, folding in half and wishing he was the one who was hurt.

How was Credence alive? _Why_  was Credence alive? He didn't deserve it- not when he had been so cruel. Not when he was a wicked, disgusting monster. Not when he had hurt Ma, who gave him food and water and shelter and made sure he was alive. Not when he had hurt Mr. Graves, who was so nice to him and healed his cuts and made sweet promises.

Another sob came out of him, and it sounded almost like a yell this time. He _didn't care_.

He was pathetic. How could _he_ cry- as if _he_ was the victim in all of this? He wasn't the victim. He was the perpetrator.

He heard the creaking of a door somewhere; and he was able to tell that it was not in his mind, but in the room. His head snapped up, and in front of him there was a door opening.

His heart began to hammer inside of him, to the point of where he could feel it in his neck and ears. He tried to scramble backwards, away from whatever was coming.

He would hurt it. He would hurt it just like he had hurt Mr. Graves.

It would hurt him. It would hurt him just like Ma had hurt him.

Behind the door was a man with messy orange hair and millions of freckles. His face sparked another remembrance. He was the man with the calming voice in the subway.

"Credence?" The man said, cautious and without stepping fully into the room. He was hunched a bit, and he didn't open the door entirely. He had to have been afraid. How could he not be? "Credence, are you alright?" Credence's name on the man's British tongue sounded weird. Different.

Credence didn't nod, or shake his head, or say yes or no. He couldn't. He just let out a sound- a vulnerable, pathetic sound, bordering on a whimper.

The man's brows creased upward in what appeared as worry, or fear, or _something_. "May I come inside?" Credence didn't answer again. Not even with a sound this time. "I'm going to come inside." He said after a bit. It held no threat or authority. "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. You can tell me to leave at any moment, alright?"

Credence couldn't find it in him to respond.

The man opened the door all the way, slowly, and he walked to the bed just as steady.

"May I sit down here, Credence?" He asks when he reaches the bottom of the bed, and Credence noticed that this man wasn't making eye contact, but instead looking at Credence's chest. Credence didn't blame him. He wouldn't have wanted to make eye contact with himself either. This time Credence is able to respond with a nod of his head. The man gave almost a smile. "Thank you." And he had said it as if Credence had done him a favor- as if it was something special that Credence gave him permission to sit near him.

Permission. As if being near Credence was something he needed to ask for; a privilege.

Being near Credence wasn't a privilege. It was a hazard.

"Do you remember me?" The man asked.

How could he forget?

Credence meant to just give a nod, but a hoarse "Yes." comes out of his throat anyway- scratchy from sleep.

The man's whole face seems to get brighter somehow, even though his expression hardly changed. "I'm glad." The man placed his hands in his lap, and his fingers began to fidget with one another. The way he was doing it looked like it was painful, with his nails scratching at his palms. Credence wondered somewhere why he was doing that if it appeared that such a thing would hurt. "May I know your last name, Credence?"

This man was so polite. Everything was a question, nothing was an order. Credence couldn't silence a voice in his head that screamed that this man was too nice. No one was ever so nice with no reason. And this man certainly had absolutely no reason to show Credence any shred of kindness. No one did.

Credence didn't answer.

The man's hands and gaze fidgeted more the longer Credence was quiet. He pursed his lips before talking again. "I can say my name first, if you like." It sounded more like a question than a statement. "My name is Newt Scamander."

"Barebone." He said shortly after that, when a tad of guilt had begun to scratch at him, voice still a bit hoarse. "My last name is Barebone."

Mr. Scamander smiled. "Credence Barebone." His hands fidgeted less. Credence's last name sounded even weirder than his first name when Mr. Scamander said it, the 'r' sounding more curved than an American accent would say it. Mr. Scamander looked Credence in the eyes, if only for a bit. It was only a bit, but it comforted Credence enough."That's a dashing name."

Credence's heart swelled at that, just a bit. No one had ever complimented his name before. What a peculiar compliment. "Thank you. Yours is nice as well."

Mr. Scamander's teeth showed and his eyes crinkled a bit when he smiled this time. His eyes locked with Credence's longer this time. "Thank you, Credence." The more Mr. Scamander said Credence's name, the more he liked how it sounded in a British accent. Mr. Scamander's smile tamed a bit and his gaze fixed back onto Credence's chest rather than his eyes before he spoke next. "Do you remember what happened at all?"

The swelling in Credence's heart popped.

"Yes." Was his simple reply. Mr. Scamander hummed and nodded.

"Right." He said. His hands fidgeted more again. "Well, I... I hate to tell you this, but the wizards," Witches? "Who attacked you- they think you've died." Credence half believed it himself. "And I believe that it's best if you leave New York and continue to let them think such."

Credence didn't know what to think of that.

"Of course, if- if you want to stay here, in New York, I cannot stop you." Yes he could. "I just cannot guarantee that you will be safe." Credence didn't deserve to be safe.

Credence thought about what he should say for a bit. "Where should I go? If not New York." He asked quietly, hesitantly. He thinks that he's said something wrong when Mr. Scamander didn't respond right away, and an apology was already on his tongue when Mr. Scamander spoke again.

"Now, I know that you've just met me," He started slowly, as if choosing his words right as he said them. "So if the answer is no, I will completely and wholeheartedly understand. But, I am leaving for London soon. If you would like, you can come with me. The same wizards cannot get or find out about you there."

Credence didn't know what to say.

"Would you... Would you like that, Credence?"

He didn't know.

Why was this man being so kind to him? What was the catch?

Credence had always hated looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he couldn't stand not asking.

"What do you want me to do to repay you?" He was almost afraid to ask. He was afraid of the answer.

Mr. Scamander looked shocked at the question, eyebrows raising ever so and eyes locking with Credence's again. "You don't need to repay me."

What a ridiculous sentence. Of _course_  Credence had to repay him. He'd never, _ever_  experienced _anything_  kind without having to do something in return. For Ma's food, he had to hand out flyers. For a bed, he had to withstand his lashes. For Mr. Graves' praise, he had to keep looking for the mysterious child he wanted. Everything had a catch.

Mr. Scamander must have noticed Credence's suspicion and disbelief. "Really, Credence, I don't want anything in return. Nothing. Making sure you are safe is all I want."

He doesn't believe him. Not for a second.

That made no sense. Why would Mr. Scamander want Credence to be safe? He didn't know Credence. Credence didn't deserve safety. He deserved to die. He deserved to die like Ma, deserved to hurt like Mr. Graves. He wanted to yell all of this.

Instead, he just asked, "Why?"

Mr. Scamander looked shocked at that question too. "Because you're hurting."

"I deserve to hurt, Mr. Scamander." He said without thinking it over.

The startled expression on Mr. Scamander's face had him feeling almost guilty. "No." He breathed out, and he sounded _hurt_. "No you don't. Why do you think that?" His hands twitched, and they looked for a split second as if they were going to reach over to Credence. At that, Credence tensed, and became several times more wary of Mr. Scamander's hand.

"Because I..." He trailed off, and he looked at Mr. Scamander's hands because he didn't want to look him in the eye. "I'm a monster." He was embarrassed when he started to feel tears in his eyes again.

"No you aren't." Mr. Scamander choked out, and the overwhelming pity in his voice had Credence's nauseous.

"I hate to... To argue, Mr. Scamander but... I am." He hated the way his voice cracked when he said it. "I killed my mother. I scared my sister, and..." He trailed off, and a lump formed in his throat. It was hard to talk around it. "What happened to Mr. Graves?"

Credence didn't like the way Mr. Scamander got a worried look and bit his lip after Credence asked.

"Percival Graves..." He started, and his hands began to clench and unclench themselves. "The man you met was not Percival Graves."

Credence felt as if Mr. Scamander had punched him.

"The man you met is a very evil, bad man, who was disguised as Percival Graves- a very important man in wizard authority. His name is Gellert Grindelwald."

Credence didn't know what to think- didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to say to that?

Mr. Scamander could be lying. He could be lying to Credence for... for some reason. Any reason.

But, somewhere, when a few things started to make a tad more sense, Credence painfully believed that Mr. Scamander wasn't lying.

So Mr. Graves was never Mr. Graves at all.

Well... So what? It's alright that he lied about his name. Everyone has their secrets, right? All of the kindness and love that he had shown... That was real. That wasn't a lie. It couldn't have been.

"Please... Please don't call him evil." It took a lot of courage to stand up for him, but as much as Credence could take a beating of himself, he couldn't bear to hear someone who had been so lovely to him be talked down upon. "He's shown me a lot of kindness." Is all Credence was able to say.

Mr. Scamander's fingers twitched. "Credence..." His voice was so soft. "Gellert Grindelwald was using you."

Credence felt as if Mr. Scamander had _stabbed_  him.

A tear fell.

"I... I know. But- but even if he was using me to- to find what he was looking for," His voice cracked. "He was still so nice. He still cared. He- He said he was going to teach me magic, and that... That I was special."

Mr. Scamander looked as if he would cry.

"I'm sorry, Credence." Is what comes out. "He... He was lying to you." Credence wanted to be deaf so he didn't have to listen. "You _are_  special, Credence. Extremely. You're powerful, immensely. You're talented, and lovey. But Grindelwald didn't... He didn't believe that you were. He didn't see that in you- he couldn't see the remarkability in front of his eyes. He didn't appreciate you, like you deserve to be."

"Stop." Credence choked out, desperate and broken and _he didn't want to hear this anymore_. "Please. He had to have meant it, Mr. Scamander."

Mr. Scamander looked every negative emotion that Credence could think of. "I'm so sorry."

Credence felt his lips quiver, and he shook his head. He couldn't say anything. The only sound he made was a sob. He curled in further on himself, and he couldn't look at Mr. Scamander anymore.

He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

After a moment of silence, a hand gently came up to touch his hand.

Credence flinched, and moved immediately so he wasn't being touched anymore.

When he looked up at Mr. Scamander's face, scared, the hurt on Mr. Scamander's face felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. He instantly felt disgustingly awful.

"I'm sorry." Credence strangled out of himself, and tried to relax.

"You have no reason to be sorry, Credence." Mr. Scamander said gently, softly, comfortingly.

Credence shook his head again. "Yes I do." He tried to say through tears. His voice was heavy with crying. "I'm such an idiot."

Mr. Scamander looked like he was holding back his hands again, and Credence tried not to flinch. He was not entirely successful.

"No you aren't. Not a thing of what happened was your fault. Grindelwald is a manipulative man, and you are far from the only person he has betrayed."

Credence didn't believe him. _Credence didn't believe him_.

"I want to do everything I can to help you in any way." Mr. Scamander whispered after a while. "But only if you want me to as well."

Credence didn't know what to say.

Why should he trust anyone anymore?

The only man who he thought really, truly loved him turned out to be a liar. A filthy, rotten liar.

But what else was there? Be captured by a bunch of witches?

At least this way he could choose the witch he was with. This way, he could experience _some_  kindness before something went wrong. Before Mr. Scamander betrayed him just like Mr. Graves.

Grindelwald. Not Mr. Graves. It was never Mr. Graves.

Another tear falls from his eye, and Credence nods.

Mr. Scamander looks relieved enough at that. He reaches his hand forward- slowly. He didn't come close enough to touch Credence. He rested his hand, palm up, on the bed, halfway between himself and Credence.

Credence didn't know how to react except to shift and reach his own hand forward. He grabbed onto Mr. Scamander's hand, and he was too devastated to address the fact that he liked holding Mr. Scamander's hand more than he liked holding Mr. Graves'.

* * *

 

Credence had said yes when Mr. Scamander asked if he wanted to be alone.

"Come out whenever you like. I'm here for anything you need. Never feel afraid to ask me anything." He had said.

It made no sense. Credence just couldn't understand why Mr. Scamander was being so nice. He had said he wanted to help Credence. Why? Credence had done nothing for him.

This was too good to be true. Mr. Scamander was too good to be true. Something wasn't right. This couldn't be right.

If not even Mr. Graves could be kind to Credence, no one could.

Especially not pretty men with orange hair and lots of freckles.

He doesn't know how long he sat there, mind stewing in confusion and suspicion and fear.

It must have been a long time, because after a while, a knock is heard on the door and Mr. Scamander spoke up behind it.

"Credence? Are you alright?"

Was he ever?

"Yes." He responded anyway.

"May I come in?"

"Yes."

It took a bit for Mr. Scamander to open the door, and once it opened Credence realized why. He was holding two mugs.

Credence jolted from the bed, rushing to help Mr. Scamander, who looked to be having trouble with not spilling what was in the mugs. Credence took a hold of the mug in Mr. Scamander's left hand, and Mr. Scamander let out a laugh that didn't really have much humor to it.

"Thank you." He said as he handed the mug fully to Credence. Only once it was fully in his hands did Credence realize how close they were.

He wanted to want to move.

But he didn't.

He looked at Mr. Scamander. At the freckles on his face and the vibrant green of his eyes.

"I hope you like tea." Mr. Scamander's smile is nice.

Credence had never had tea before. "I do." He said anyway.

Mr. Scamander's smile got even wider. "Splendid." He seemed to have difficulty maintaining eye contact still, for he kept looking between Credence's eyes and his mug. "If you're up to it, I would like to show you something." When Credence tensed, he rephrased. "Nothing bad, I assure you. It's something that means very much to me, and I think that you will like it."

Mr. Scamander didn't know anything about Credence. Credence doubted he would like much of anything he was shown.

"Alright." He said, and he wondered somewhere if he would keep saying the opposite of what he felt.

"Wonderful." His hands shook, and the tea in his mug trembled. He looked like he was trying to still his hands again. Credence noticed that Mr. Scamander looked as if stilling his hands was a habit. "Please, follow me."

He turned around, and walked out of the door he came from. Credence walking out of the room he was in gives way to a different smell- less stuffy and more dusty. He went into another room of wood, with a heavy feeling of a shack to it.

There was a stove, and shelves with vials, books, herbs, feathers, and arrays of items Credence couldn't identify decorating them. Ma's screeches of "witchcraft" rang in his head when he saw such strange vials and bottles, some of them labeled with strange words that Credence had either never or rarely seen.

There was a ladder at the side of the room, and it led to a door on the ceiling. He wondered where it went.

He followed Mr. Scamander to another door, and when he opened it, Credence thought he was dreaming. He knew he'd wake up any moment now, with Ma and Modesty and Chastity, and Mr. Graves would be Mr. Graves, and none of this happened at all.

Credence saw several animals, if they could be called such. Strange creatures that he'd never seen before in his life, some with bright feathers, some with strange gullets, some with peculiar spikes or bone structures. Some bird like creatures popped out of existence in one place only to pop back in a different place, some strange things in trees cawed noises Credence could have never imagined. Credence hadn't seen many animals in his life, but he was fairly positive that none of these would be something to marvel at the zoo.

He almost dropped his mug.

Mr. Scamander walked a bit inside of the open area, where there were plenty of trees and plants and peculiar animals. Credence followed him tentatively, unsure of where to step or look.

"These..." Mr. Scamander turned around to look at him with a wide smile and happy eyes. "Are my beasts."

"Beasts." Credence repeated under his breath, and he scanned his eyes everywhere he could. That was the only proper word that Credence could imagine they'd be called. Albeit a bit harsh, what other word was there to use?

"They'd adore you, I'm certain. Would you like to meet some of them?" Mr. Scamander asked, and the hope in his voice paired with Credence's amazement made for an easy answer.

"I would really like to." He said, breathless. "Where... Where are we?"

Mr. Scamander looked so happy here, surrounded by nature and strange creatures. "Why, we're in New York. I need to keep these lovelies with me at all times. Believe it or not, we're inside of my suitcase!" Mr. Scamander's freckles bunched with his laugh lines and the creases near his eyes.

No, Credence _didn't_  believe it. But he was half certain this was all a dream anyway, so he didn't care to question.

A peculiar sound, almost a laugh, bubbled out of Mr. Scamander after a bit. Nothing too loud, but something that seemed out of elation and excitement. "May I please introduce you to them?"

Meeting the beasts was the most spectacular thing that had ever happened to Credence in his entire life.

All of them were so pleasant; none were angry or tried to attack him. Some of them required things like bowing or making certain noises before Credence could touch or come near them, but he didn't mind. It was all so extravagant and beautiful and _magical_.

It was so remarkably easy to forget that this was all witchcraft. That this man and these creatures and the fact that all of this was inside of a blasted _suitcase_  was evil and reeked of the Devil. Ma would say that this was horrible, abominable, and all from the most evil, dark, fiery pits of Hell.

If not a bit guiltily, Credence thinks that maybe if this is what Hell is made of, it isn't as bad as he thought.

After much time and many beasts, Mr. Scamander and Credence had reached the shack that they had come from.

"And lastly," Mr. Scamander was still smiling, looking so incredibly happy to be sharing this with Credence. "We have Pickett." Credence recognized the name. Mr. Scamander reached into a pocket he had on his button up over the left side of his chest, and gently pulled out a small green thing that simply looked like a stick. Credence recognized it as one of the bowtruckles that Mr. Scamander had showed him earlier. "He's a bowtruckle- like the ones I showed you."

"Why isn't he with the others?" He asked, and came a little closer to Mr. Scamander to get a better look at Pickett, who was sitting delicately in Mr. Scamander's palm. Pickett's response was minute, just a soft leaning forward towards Credence and the slight cocking of his head.

Mr. Scamander seemed happy that Credence had asked a question. "Well." Mr. Scamander clicked his tongue. "Bowtruckles have a tendency to become very attached to things. The other bowtruckles have become attached to their tree, as such is the natural way of the species, but this silly little nuisance here's become attached to _me_. As if I was a tree! He hates leaving my side." Pickett turned his face to look towards Mr. Scamander. "But I don't mind." Pickett chittered happily at that. Mr. Scamander's smile brightened and he brought Pickett closer to him. "Oh, don't act so shocked; of course I wouldn't mind, Pickett."

"He can understand you?" Credence was more wondering aloud rather than actually asking, but it seemed Mr. Scamander couldn't tell.

He looked up at Credence with his bright eyes and freckled cheeks. "Oh, yes! Most of my beasts can." He looked back down at Pickett. "This one's a particularly smart little bugger. Can be a bit of a brat sometimes, too. Bit too smart for his own interests, he is." When Credence didn't say anything, Mr. Scamander flushed and pursed his lips with guilt in his eyes. "Oh, Merlin." Credence wondered if that was another beast Mr. Scamander hadn't shown him. "I hope this wasn't boring for you, Credence. Most people I've met can't stand to hear me talk about magizoology."

"No!" Credence scolded himself for shouting, and even though he expected punishment, reassuring Mr. Scamander was more important to him than any extra consequences. He refused to dwell on why. "No, I... This is the most remarkable thing I've ever seen, Mr. Scamander."

Quickly, he recovered his face from guilt to elation. Mr. Scamander surely was an expressive man. "I'm so delighted to hear that!" He wasn't punishing Credence for yelling. Why not? "Usually no one gives a bloody damn. You're so refreshing." Refreshing. That's a word Credence had never been called. "And, please, call me Newt. We're friends now, aren't we?"

Friends.

Credence's stomach tingled and his heart trembled. Friend. A friend. No one, ever, had called Credence their friend. Not even Mr. Graves.

For the first time in a long time- the first time in what felt like ever- the corners of his mouth ached to turn up. And he let them. Just a bit.

"If you're alright with such." Credence said with warm cheeks.

He didn't want to think about how it was only a matter of time until Mr. Scamander took it back; until Credence did something wrong or Mr. Scamander showed a side of himself Credence wasn't seeing currently.

So he didn't.

But if he had, he would have been shocked at how easily he was able to just ignore his doubts of Mr. Scamander.

Of Newt.

"Of course!" Newt grinned, large and white and happy. "More than alright."

Credence refused to tear up. He absolutely refused.

* * *

 

As weeks went by, Credence doubted Newt less and less.

The more he saw Newt's smile, heard Newt's laugh, felt Newt's hands, the more he knew that this was real. This was genuine. And he knew because it was _nothing_ like Mr. Graves.

Looking upon it, Mr. Graves' voice had never been so enthusiastic to see Credence as Newt's always was. Mr. Graves' hands had never been as wary and gentle as Newt's always were. Mr. Graves' eyes had never sparkled when he saw Credence as Newt's always did. Mr. Graves' eyes never sparkled at all.

Newt cared. Newt genuinely cared. Credence refused to believe otherwise- and this time he knew it was not because of denial, but because each second spent with Newt made it that much easier to refuse.

But as the weeks turned into months, Credence began to feel ill at the sight of Newt's smile. Because he knew that his feelings towards Newt were quickly surpassing the bounds of friendship.

When he saw Newt's hands tremble as he tried to still them, Credence had to smother the desire to hold onto them and move them for him. When Newt stumbled on or repeated words several times in a sentence, Credence desperately wanted to tell Newt his embarrassment was unnecessary, and that Credence found it unbelievably endearing and adorable. When Newt sometimes made short lived, loud sounds when he got very excited, Credence wanted to hug Newt and kiss the mouth that made the happy squeaks or yells or laughs or whatever Newt had made.

Credence, as he'd come to realize, was no fool. He may not have known many people in his lifetime, but he knew that people did not often have to keep their hands from moving if they were excited. He knew that people did not often make sounds of elation when words were at the ready. He knew that people did not often scratch at their palms when they were nervous. He knew that people did not often struggle so much to look people directly in the eyes. He knew that people did not often, if ever, feel and express emotions so strongly as Newt did.

But Credence couldn't find it in him to consider it strange, or annoying, or any other word that Newt had used to describe it and himself. Every odd, unique thing about Newt only made him that much more charming.

And Credence hated it.

He was back to being just as abominable as he had felt before he'd met Newt. Just as sinful. Just as Devlish. Just as disgusting.

It hurt. By the good grace of God did it hurt every bone in his body.

Credence hadn't thought much of Ma anymore until he had had his first thought of kissing Newt. Then Ma's voice was a symphony he heard every day.

Credence, while not often, had certainly heard Ma speak of queers when he had lived with her.

Filthy. Sinners. Sodomites. As horrible as witches.

That's what she'd always said.

That's what rang in Credence's ears every time he thought of Newt.

Credence lived in guilt for months. Painful months where seeing Newt smile made his hands hurt and beg to touch Newt's jaw and laugh lines and freckles. Where he dreamed of sin and heat and Newt's lips on his neck. Where Newt's hands made Credence's skin raise and mouth dry.

Credence's hair was longer, nicer now. The longer it grew, the more Newt praised it. The more Newt praised it, the longer Credence wanted it. It was a good length now- down to his shoulders, and far from the unpleasant close cut Ma had insisted upon. Enough to tie up when necessary. And Newt loved it. He'd say something every day on how it looked nice and suited Credence's face.

He felt his heart flutter with each compliment, and it took everything in him to not scream that Newt was far better looking than Credence could ever dream of being, with his constellations of freckles and his bright green eyes and well shaped jaw.

He didn't mean to, when he said it. He didn't at all.

They were observing the Occamy nest, watching the small creatures slither and sleep. It was evident how Newt loved them, with as much passion and adoration as all of his beasts. Credence loved them too; they were very pretty. Credence would have been looking at them as well, if Newt hadn't been prettier.

Credence hadn't even realized he'd said it, at first.

"You're very beautiful."

Immediately after he realized that that was _his_  voice, his stomach churned and his vision doubled.

Oh Lord, he had just insinuated queer thoughts to Newt. Newt, the man who had taken him in and protected him because he _wanted_  to. But now, how could Newt want him there? How could Newt _not_ kick him out from the suitcase, when he'd just said something as queer as a damned three dollar bill?

Credence had done it again. He did the same thing he had done to Ma. To Mr. Graves. He'd ruined a good thing.

Except, he didn't. Because just as Credence felt the darkness- the obscurus, Newt had called it- rise up his stomach and throat, almost seeping through his pores and exploding, Newt looked over to him with red cheeks and wide eyes.

He didn't look anywhere near mad.

In fact, after his shock, he smiled.

"Thank you. You're quite beautiful yourself, dare I say."

Beautiful. Newt had called him beautiful. _Newt_  had called _him_  beautiful.

Credence's face heated, and he fiddled with his fingers while Newt fiddled with his own. "Thank you."

Newt smiled, and at the smile- tender and sweet- Credence had to tell him. No matter the consequence. No matter the punishment. He couldn't keep it in anymore. It hurt, and he ached with longing and desperation and he just  _needed_ to get this heavy burden off of his chest, even if Newt hated him for it.

"I think I like you." Credence pushed out. It hurt his tongue and teeth and lungs, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut about it anymore. "I've never liked anyone before, but I think this is what it's meant to feel like."

When a few moments pass by with no words and only Newt's shocked expression, Credence felt regret bubble inside of him, and the dark thing inside of him clawed at his organs.

Why? _Why_  had he said that? Oh, God-

But Newt smiled anyways. Newt smiled wide, beautiful teeth exposed and skin around his eyes scrunching happily.

"What an amazing thing to hear. What an honestly spectacular thing to hear." Newt turned to face Credence, and at first he looked like he was trying to keep his hands from moving, but changed his mind and reached forward for Credence's hands. For once, Credence didn't flinch. And for once, Newt looked Credence in the eyes and his gaze _stayed there_. "Do you really mean it, Credence? Even with my weird traits? My messing up of words and my weird sounds and my ridiculous emotions-"

"They're not ridiculous." Credence interrupted, for the sole reason of he couldn't bear to hear Newt talk down upon himself. "Your emotions are wonderful. Your words are wonderful. Your sounds are wonderful. There's nothing wrong with them, there's nothing wrong with you." He was gushing. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. "Everything about you is the greatest. I love everything about you."

He almost bit his damned tongue off when he said it.

Love. _Love_. As if he could _love_  another man- as if he would even know what love feels like. As if it was natural to love another man.

But Newt didn't let Credence's darkness rise in him again.

"I love you." Newt breathed, and his smile was unbelievably gorgeous.

Credence's heart froze, and he couldn't breathe for what felt like ages.

When he moved, he didn't even realize it until his lips were on Newt's. And Newt didn't let him regret that, either, because he kissed right back.

**Author's Note:**

> ik there are already a lot of fics that are just of credence and newt livin in newts suitcase but not nearly enough have autistic newt so here u go
> 
> if u leave me a comment i will Love u with a capital L also a kudos is cool too
> 
> follow me on the hell site tumblr @memekasasha


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